Go Mad
by Shaitanah
Summary: Claire wonders if she can ever forgive herself for bringing Sylar back into the world – but it needed to be done.


**Title**: "Go Mad"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R (for violence)

**Timeline**: post-Invisible Thread (SPOILERS)

**Summary**: Claire wonders if she can ever forgive herself for bringing Sylar back into the world – but it needed to be done.

**Disclaimer**: _Heroes _belong to Tim Kring and NBC.

**A/N**: Just giving in to my latest obsession))

* * *

**GO MAD**

"We haven't finished our conversation, Claire."

Sickness rises within her, light like champagne bubbles, too light; she can't even feel the tears prickling at her eyes. She should be used to him coming back alive all the time – but not _now_, not after they did _everything_ to stop him! She is not surprised that he is alive; but she is scared out of her mind because a second ago he wasn't here, yet now he looks at her with her father's eyes, he speaks to her in her father's voice – but he speaks of the things only Sylar could know.

She cannot move. It seems he controls her again, but he hasn't so much as moved a hand. He starts saying something and chokes on the words, taken aback by the sound of the unfamiliar voice coming from the unfamiliar throat. He doesn't remember shifting into Nathan. He casts a brief glance at the glass door of the cabinet, catching his reflection, then looks back at her. Her fear seems to amuse him.

He takes a step towards her. Something inside her mind snaps, and she leaves all the how's and why's hanging and starts running. A flick of his hand – the doors move to slam shut in her way. Fortunately, she manages to slip through. He walks after her leisurely, completely certain in his victory. It _is_ victory; he doesn't even know how he has just broken her.

Where is Nathan? The question pulses in her brain. Do they know? She wants to yell for help, but her throat constricts when she attempts to.

"Claire," he drawls almost seductively.

She looks back once to make sure it's not a nightmare. She's had her share of nightmares since Sylar came into her life. But it's not right. She watched him burn. She and Peter and Nathan and Noah and others… He was there, he was there, he was _there_. If she repeats that enough times, maybe it will sink in. Maybe she will wake up to see that Nathan is still Nathan and Sylar is still dead.

She bumps into somebody all of a sudden, head-on; a blunt feeling of bodies slamming against each other goes right through her, leaving no trace of sensation.

"Everything all right, Senator Petrelli?" the security guard asks impassively as he steadies Claire, looking past her, straight at Na… Sylar. His face is dutifully blank.

"Everything's fine," Sylar replies evenly. "Claire and I are just–."

Again, words freeze in his mouth. His gaze, unfocused, bewildered, darts from her to the security guard, travels along the corridor, and she grasps at the feeble hope for it all being a dream yet again. Seeing is believing, after all, and she hasn't _seen_ him shift into Sylar.

She needs proof. She needs to stop him from talking to her now.

He holds out his hand and says something warmly, deceptively gently. Claire doesn't think, doesn't plan. She just reaches for the security guard's shoulder holster, grasps his gun and shoots. A thunderous sound explodes.

The noise of radio static and the echo of the gunshot and someone's hoarse outcries envelop her. Nathan lies bleeding on the floor. His pallid face is all that she can see as the guard restrains her, anything but considerate now, and pries her trembling fingers loose to take the gun away from her.

Claire doesn't resist. She is waiting.

If he bleeds hard enough, there is still hope.

If he heals, he will kill her. Figuratively speaking, at least. He will then kill Angela and Peter. Figuratively _and_ literally.

"Claire…" the man on the floor exhales.

Tears splatter over her cheeks. She can't even see him properly because her eyes are all misty; she doesn't know – can't understand – who he is, and she lets them haul her away. They probably think she's gone crazy if she has just shot her own father. Let them raise the alarm. Let them call Noah and Angela and Peter for goodness sake! Let her talk to anyone about it!

* * *

She is not arrested. Far from it. They place her under surveillance in one of the unused cells of the Company building, just out of precaution, for her safety or for the family's safety. She waits. There are people outside the cell all the time, probing, watching, listening, making sure she is who she says she is and not some shapeshifter or illusion master.

She doesn't count the hours as they pass. It has been a bizarre day. She thinks she would have noticed small indications if she had seen Nathan more often since Sylar's funeral. She would have noticed the way he paused sometimes, losing the thread of the conversation, as though his own voice felt alien to him. She would have noticed that he listened to the clocks sometimes as though they whispered something to him. She would have noticed the electric current going uncontrolled between his fingers whenever he got too agitated, or the coffee mug moving a few inches without him laying a finger on it. All those powers lay dormant within him, unused, but it didn't mean they didn't exist.

"Claire."

She snaps out of her ruminations. He is here, standing on the threshold, hesitant to come in. He looks perfectly healthy whereas he should be in hospital.

"You…" she spits vehemently and steps back into the corner of the cell instinctively. "Don't come near me!"

"Claire." He takes a small step in her direction. She collects herself, watching him warily. He tries to talk to her soothingly as if she is a wild animal frightened beyond reason. "I want you to know that I'm not mad at you. I just… I want to understand, Claire. Why did you do it? What happened back there in the office?"

"Don't you dare mock me! I don't know what kind of sick entertainment this is for you… Where is my father?"

"Noah? He's on his way. I called him right away."

"Don't play games with me!" she hisses and she flings herself at him, throwing punches at random. She just wants to hurt him, even if the damage is not permanent.

He grabs her by the shoulders and pushes her against the wall. He gestures at the security guard to back off, saying that he's got the situation under control. Claire aims a blow at his knee. He grunts but manages to hold her in place.

"Tell me what's wrong!" he shouts. There is something close to desperation both in his eyes and his voice.

She wonders if he is genuine now. Whoever he is. Is it possible that he is not playing with her? Is it possible that he really doesn't know?..

"Nathan?" she whispers.

His face is inappropriately close to hers. This intimacy unnerves her; she would give a lot to pull away now. He doesn't smell like Nathan. She recognizes the faint smell from the last time she saw Sylar.

"Who else would I be?" Nathan murmurs – and releases her.

Claire sinks down on the floor and shuts her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, he holds out his hand, offering to help her get up. She takes it, curling her fingers around his in search of reassurance. Nathan smiles. Claire doesn't.

His gaze suddenly goes blank, fixed on the elegant watch wrapped around her wrist.

"Did Pete give you this?"

"Yeah. A couple of weeks ago. Why?"

"Should have asked me beforehand. The mechanism's all worn out. A lot of work needs to be done on it."

Her fingers feel wooden in his grip. She attempts to pull away; his grip tightens automatically. A lump comes up to Claire's throat.

His eyes darken. They are not his eyes; too dark. She wants to scream at him until he snaps out of it; she is astounded to learn that she doesn't understand what she wants him to snap out of. Go back to being Sylar and tell her the truth? Or go back to being Nathan and pretend there is no feral gleam in his too dark eyes?

"You'll tell me, right? You'll tell me what's going on." Not his voice either. Somewhat like his; but not entirely. If she could feel pain, he would be hurting her hand by now. Too tight. And then he speaks again, and he sounds like Nathan. "I really do want to understand, Claire. I want to put all the nightmares behind us. It's like Ma said, right? We're family."

"Can I have my hand back, please?" is all she can say. It comes out a little breathy.

Nathan releases her and smiles warmly. She forces herself to smile back.

* * *

The silence in the car as Noah drives her to his place is uncomfortable. There is ice between them again. She knows he's had someone alter the memories of the witnesses. That shooting never happened.

"When were you going to tell me?" Claire asks, too tired to pretend everything is okay.

He considers a comforting lie, but sets on the neutral, "Someday. Later."

"Who else knows?"

"Angela and Matt Parkman."

"And Peter?"

"No."

"So what now?" Claire spits. Her voice trembles. "Are you going to erase me too? Call Parkman or the Haitian or whoever else is willing to help you?"

"Of course not."

"You promised me, Dad! No more lies!" She wants to hit him. She feels like bursting in tears. "How could you even let it happen? It's Sylar, Dad! Sylar!"

"We're not giving Sylar a second chance," Noah protests. "We're giving it to Nathan. Without him, there was no chance of stopping the manhunt. Claire, believe me, there is nothing–."

"Don't," she snaps. "You're just gonna lie to me again."

* * *

She may be a little crazy. She doesn't know what she is doing outside his apartment. If he is there, what is he like now? Who does he think he is?

She finds the door open. Something creaks beneath her shoes. Shards of a broken mirror sprinkled with blood. She swallows thickly and ventures deeper into the flat.

She finds him in the bedroom. He hears her come in, doubtless, but he never acknowledges her presence. She blinks her eyes nervously.

"Didn't think you'd be here," she murmurs. It's true; for some reason she expected him to be gone.

"Where else would I be?"

Sylar's voice. He turns away from the window; he looks like Sylar. His eyes are lighter, but that's the only difference. As the conversation continues, they darken anyway.

Claire approaches him slowly.

"Do you remember anything? About… what happened?"

"Flashes. Bits and pieces." His voice and his expression are distant. "Bits and pieces of Gabriel Gray. Flashes of Nathan Petrelli. The feeling of blood on my hands." He touches his own face awkwardly. "Didn't I tell you they were all users?"

Claire purses her lips, sickened by the realization: Nathan is not coming back. Even if she lets them erase Sylar again, it will not make him Nathan completely. What they did to him is… unnatural.

"I won't make excuses for them," she says as she comes to stand opposite him, a few inches apart. "This is sick." He smiles; the smile holds a bit of the old sinister Sylar. Claire continues harshly: "But you don't deserve pity. You killed my father."

"You have a spare one," he remarks coolly. He raises his hand and runs his fingers through her hair absent-mindedly. "We have only two options, Claire. Either you let them have their way again – but you must realize that underneath it will always be me, or you help me bring them all down. That's the right thing to do, don't you think so? The just thing."

"I have a better idea."

She flicks her hand up, a knife sliding from underneath the sleeve, and stabs him hard in the chest. He cries out, harshly, waves his hand so sharply she can almost hear the joints click, and the unseen force slams her against the wall. Sylar pulls the knife out.

"Claire, Claire," he sing-songs. "How rude. All I did was–."

She refuses to listen. She lunges at him, hitting him every way she can, with her fists, with her feet (she almost wishes she was wearing those ridiculous stiletto heels that she bought on a whim last week). He doesn't leave that unanswered. Blue lightning flares in his hands. He shocks her several times violently. She can feel the static crack on her clothes and ignores it. She hits him in the jaw and drives him up against the wall. He releases another jolt into her. She kicks him in the stomach with her foot. He flings her casually across the room. She grabs a heavy antique vase and hurtles it into his head. He lifts the chair telekinetically and sends it in her direction. She regrets for the first time that she has no active abilities like Meredith's fire or Elle's lightning – the bastard is smiling and there is nothing she desires more than to scorch that smug expression off of his face.

She darts whatever she can lay her hands on at him. A mobile phone adapter, books, a photo of Peter and Nathan in a heavy frame, a plate with the remains of some casual snack. She grabs a leg of the ruined chair and aims a blow at him. He rips it out of her grip, and it flies out of the window, breaking the impediment of glass. The sound is sharp and loud.

Claire reaches for a fragment of glass. Sylar hurls the phone at her; the chord twines around her ankles, causing her to fall. As soon as he gets near her, she plunges the fragment of glass into his shoulder. He slashes at her neck. Blood wells up in her throat, gurgling like a small whirlpool. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth.

"That's how I killed dear Nathan," Sylar whispers into her ear. He sounds almost sultry. The fact that he is so close to her – his body, his breath, his mind, it seems – is both sickening and intoxicating. "Slit his throat. He made a funny face before he died."

The cut on Claire's throat heals. She throws her hand up, hitting him with the glass shard. She aimed for his eyes but missed; a bloody gash glistens across his nose and cheeks. She disentangles herself from the telephone chord and kicks him in the face with the toe of her shoe. He topples over; she straddles him, snatches the knife away from him and flourishes it at him.

"Wanna know the difference between us?" she breathes heavily. "You can still feel pain."

She drives the blade into his flesh over and over again as he writhes and screams underneath her. She has his blood all over her hands, and it burns like acid, but she yearns for payback for everything he has done to her.

That first assault at school – stab.

Cutting off half of her head, making her unable to _ever_ be normal again – stab.

Daring to apologize, to imagine _he_ has the right to be normal – she hates him for it.

That bullet that killed her – his fault.

Her father wasn't by her side when she died – his fault!

Killing her mother, nearly forcing her to kill her grandmother – stab twice.

Daring to think she could ever learn to… – bleed, bleed, you bastard!

Claire screams, desperately, like a hunted, wounded animal.

Killing Nathan, _being_ Nathan – she hopes it hurts like hell.

She tries not to give him any chance to regain focus, but somehow he finds a way. He throws her off and manages to sit up, bloodied, flesh torn, clothes ragged. She jumps up to her feet, but before she can draw near him, he tosses the entire bed at her. Air stops in her lungs for a moment.

She wants to cry. She wants to leave, to hide somewhere, bury her face in her hands and cry as hard as possible. She wonders dimly why he is not using the whole package of his powers on her.

"Claire," he calls tauntingly. "We're both indestructible. How do you think this is gonna end?"

"Well, maybe," she exhales, crawling out of the trap, "I don't want it to end just yet."

He raises the shards of glass and showers her with them. She brandishes the knife but he breaks her wrist and the weapon drops on the floor. He wraps his fingers around her throat and squeezes ferociously. She wheezes. He bashes her head against the wall. It's bound to make her feel something, anything, but it doesn't. It's just a number of meaningless actions.

Hours later, when they have thrashed the room thoroughly, they both lie on the floor exhausted. Claire doesn't hurt, but her body feels so numb that she can't control it.

He is too close. She can smell his blood and sweat and the lingering scent of Nathan's cologne. Sylar glances up at her, reaches out and takes her hand. She tenses, powerless to fight back. To her astonishment, he simply brings her wrist to his ear and listens to the ticking of the watch, inaudible to anyone but him. Then he peels it off gently, and she passes out, unable to keep focus any longer.

* * *

Claire wakes up eternity after when something cool touches her wrist. She opens her eyes to see Sylar putting the watch back on.

"Who are you?" she blurts out before she can stop herself. Perhaps deep inside, deeper than she imagined, she still hopes for–.

The smirk that twists his lips tells her it's fool's hope.

"Claire, we had such a spectacular night! Don't pretend to have lost your memory."

"You," she says simply, very tired. The feel of his touch lingers on her skin long after he has let go of her hand. This touch, out of many.

"Nathan's left the building," Sylar chuckles. "And it's you who I should be thanking. You woke me up to who I really am. You saved me."

"What can I say? I have this Peter-like streak in me. Guys, puppies, former Level Five detainees… Why not throw some sociopathic serial killers in too?"

Her ability to joke _now_ devastates her.

"This is not our last meeting, Claire," Sylar says, getting up and heading for the door.

Damn straight, she thinks. That beast has to answer for his crimes. He must burn for real.

She looks at the watch, remembers him – as Nathan – telling her it's broken. Did he… make it right? She scrambles up on her feet, shaking lightly.

"Sylar."

He halts near the door and glances back at her over his shoulder.

"Why did you–?" Claire cannot bring herself to finish the sentence. Her throat is too dry. She brings her hand up inquiringly.

"I'm a watchmaker," the answer comes. "Or at least I was intended to be. Originally."

"Hard to imagine you fixing things. You break them." Broken furniture catches her attention. Torn curtains, shattered windows, sticky bloodstains all over the scorched carpet. "You broke me."

She recalls her bloodthirst and frenzy. She remembers stabbing her furiously and enjoying it. The feeling of the blade splitting the flesh apart, grazing the bones.

"Oh, you're not broken, Claire," he remarks with a small smile, and she wonders if she deserved forgiveness for bringing the monster back into the world. However immoral what they did to him was, they _stopped_ Sylar – only that mattered. "You're exactly the way you're supposed to be."

He winks at her. And then he is gone.

Claire turns away from the door slowly. She walks to the bathroom, opens the tap and splashes some cool water on her face. Washes her hands absent-mindedly. Dry sobbing smothers her, but she can't squeeze tears out. She considers calling Noah because she can't stand being alone now. She will always be Daddy's little girl no matter how many lies he tells her.

In the end she dismisses the idea. She sits in the corner, listening to the water flow, and stares at the watch. Sylar's power is a curious thing; she almost wishes she had it. Then she could understand how he functions – and switch him off.


End file.
